Watching Rainbows
by espiyo
Summary: Well, it looks like one way or t'other 10.6 is going to be a humdinger. And probably nothing at all like this...As the inquiry ends, Harry has to face up to the consequences of what he's done. Disclaimer: Kudos  *gives them evils*  and the BBC own all.
1. Chapter 1

**I was trying to write this in one go so that I could post it all without long gaps between updates. However, I'm afraid I failed miserably; I just ended up tweaking it to death. On that basis I thought it best to at least get chapter one out there. I started this in the early hours of last Thursday, as you can probably tell...**

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><p>'What the hell does that mean?' asked Tariq.<p>

Erin, flipping through the papers in front of her, looked up. 'It means that the evidence which came to light during the inquiry suggests that Harry has a criminal case to answer.'

'They're going to _try_ him?'

'Precisely.'

'In a court of law?'

'That is generally what it means, Beth. And that's all the information I have at this stage. So, can we move on to the next item on the agenda, please? Ruth?' She gave an exasperated sigh. 'Ruth, could we have your attention on the matter at hand, please?'

'Um. Sorry. Yes. Um...'

'Mobius?' The sarcasm in Erin's tone prompted all eyes around the table to drop to the desk.

'Um. Yes. Mobius. I-its a German far right group that was been created shortly after the dissolution of the Nazi Party in 1945. It was originally an intellectual think tank...er...it had no formal political affiliations that I've been able to establish, and after a brief flurry of activity, mainly economic treatises, it disappeared off the radar in the early 50s. It re-surfaced again some twenty years later with Chancellor Brandt's policy of Neue Ostpolitik...um, basically a thawing of relations with the Soviets...only this time it achieved a much higher profile. By the end of the 70s it began to attract those with an interest in more direct action and gradually that side won out. These days it draws its membership principally from Autonome Nationalisten, or Independent Nationalists, whose economic beliefs are actually...'

'How about we cut to the chase?' asked Erin. 'Are these Nazis likely to pose a threat to the talks?'

Ruth frowned. 'It's not as simple as a yes or no; I..'

'Of course it is. Do they have the manpower, the resources, the motive?'

'Motive, certainly; the Israeli...' She saw the look on her section chief's face. 'Y-yes. I suspect they do, yes.'

Erin sat back in her chair. 'Right then. Beth, what do you have on the delegates?'

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><p>Towers handed him a heavy crystal tumbler.<p>

Harry gazed at the amber liquid within. 'I'd better savour this. Could be my last for a while.'

'Why did you do it, Harry? Why did you just roll over and play dead? You were never going to get your tummy tickled, just kicked in the balls.'

'Is it that you're bothered about, or the hornet's nest I've just poked a sharp stick into?' asked Harry, drily.

Towers contemplated the contents of his glass. 'Both, I suppose. You're a good man, Harry, and while I didn't expect you to come out of the inquiry smelling of roses I had hoped the verdict would be a slapped wrist and an early retirement. A much more fitting end to a distinguished career.'

'Not so distinguished, as it turns out.'

'Oh, come now. Plenty in the security services have done far worse than you. You don't rise to the giddy heights without having a few skeletons closeted away. And needs must, old boy. The end justifies the means, and so on and so forth.' He put his glass down on the table with a sigh. 'But that's not to say I'm happy at the prospect of embers being raked over, even if they are 30 years old. Still, what's done is done, eh? We'll cope with the fallout, whatever it may be, as and when it happens.'

Harry pursed his lips, but said nothing.

'So, how are the team? How is the formidable Ms Watts getting on?'

Harry sipped at his whisky. 'I don't know. I haven't had any contact with them since I was suspended.'

Towers smiled. 'Yes, I know that's the party line, but...'

Harry shook his head.

'...Oh. Forgive me if I'm speaking out of turn, but I thought that Ruth...'

'Home Secretary, you were at the inquiry. You heard my testimony. My relationship with Ms Evershed was purely a working one. My feelings for her were not reciprocated and my decision to trade her life for Albany put paid to any respect or - or fondness she may have felt for me.'

'But that damned blueprint never worked!'

Harry shrugged.

The older man regarded him, his face troubled. 'Talk to her,' he said firmly.

The words w_hile you still can _hung unspoken in the air between them.

Harry understood the conversation was at an end. He downed the whisky in one, and sliding the tumbler onto the desk got wearily to his feet. 'So, what happens now? Will the boys in blue pounce the moment I set foot in the corridor?'

'It's been agreed that you will report to your local station at 10am tomorrow. There, you will most likely be charged and released on bail. You'll have to surrender your passport, I'm afraid.' He eyed Harry. 'All of them.'

Harry managed a smile. 'Thank you. If I might ask one last thing?'

'Of course.'

'I-I haven't cleared my desk. I'd like to go back to the Grid. Say my goodbyes.'

Towers stood and came round the desk. Both men knew that the request breached just about every protocol in the book.

'I'll see to it,' he said quietly, and held out his hand.

Harry shook it. 'Home Secretary.'

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><p>When Ruth finally returned to her desk an 'eyes only' envelope had been placed in her tray. She sat down, placed her mug on the desk, and scanned her emails. Fifteen minutes later, the replies sent, she returned her attention to the envelope. A quick glance confirmed that everyone within sight on the Grid was intent on their work. Bundling the envelope into a pile of files, she made her way to the pods.<p>

Her first port of call was the registry. She signed the files back in, then with the envelope tucked under her arm she made her way to the first aid room. To her relief it was unoccupied. She switched on the light, bolted the door, and hitched herself up onto the treatment table.

The fingers that eased the manilla file from the envelope were not entirely steady.

She began to read.


	2. Chapter 2

**High speed update! Progress will probably slow a little after this, as I only have one more chapter drafted and am still juggling with various options thereafter.  
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><p>The faces that greeted him when he stepped through the doors of Thames House were stiff and unsmiling. Even James of the ready grin and the sporting banter was formal and ill at ease. Wordlessly Harry emptied his pockets and took off his watch, reversing the process seconds later as the scanner registered no objection to his presence.<p>

'I'm afraid I'll need to escort you upstairs, Sir Harry. Your pass has been deactivated.'

Harry nodded. 'Great innings from Cook yesterday, hm?'

'This way please, sir.'

As they exited the lift and walked towards the pods, Harry contemplated how he'd envisaged his final day on the Grid. Another crisis averted; a grudging, possibly equivocal and thankfully brief speech from Dolby; the presentation of the inevitable crystal glasses, and then...then a night of celebrations in the George, with, above all, Adam and Ros, and Ruth. Ruth. He felt his heart constrict as his eyes scanned the faces watching him from the other side of the pods and failed to alight on Ruth. Of course they'd been warned he was on his way up. Of course she'd made herself scarce. As he emerged onto the Grid for the last time all eyes remained on him, and he stood for a moment, unsure what to do or say. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw Erin approach. Blinking, he took in the stratospheric heels, the pencil skirt, the fitted blouse that may have left everything to the imagination, but didn't half give the imagination something to go on.

'Ms Watts,' he said, his voice neutral.

'Sir Harry. I wish we could have met in more...auspicious circumstances.'

He nodded. 'Well, I won't keep you. I'm just here to collect my things and say my goodbyes.'

'Of course. There's an archive box on the desk. I'll leave you to it.'

Harry didn't miss the look she fired at James, and he was grateful for it, for as he set off towards his office, the young man remained where he was.

Somewhat to his surprise, it appeared that Erin had not taken up residence; everything was just as he'd left it. He lowered himself into his chair and looked out across the Grid. Dimitri, catching his eye, gave him a fleeting smile. Beth was already engrossed in a phone call. With a sigh he turned his attention to the task in hand. Although he knew by heart the contents of every shelf, drawer and cupboard as well as both the safes, he went through them all methodically. Not until he placed the lid on the box did he pause to reflect. With the door closed on the world outside, his head filled with Ros's sarcastic retorts, Adam's calm reasoning, Zaf's laughter. He saw Ruth bursting into the meeting room in a blaze of colour and a tumble of files. He saw Jo smile, a smile that could melt the hardest of hearts, as he threatened her with deportation. The slideshow clicked on. Malcolm, his face alight as he talked about his latest tracking device. Colin bent over his crossword. Zoe transformed by her love for Will. Tom's last look up at the front of Thames House. Ruth's tentative smile the night he returned from suspension. Her giving him both barrels when he disciplined her over the Fortescue affair. Her laughing with Danny and Sam as they listened to what that shaggy haired, imbecilic rocker had claimed was music. The lingering looks, the gentle touches. Ruth, always Ruth.

'Harry?'

He turned. Beth, Tariq and Dimitri stood in the doorway, Beth clearly on the verge of tears. 'Well, I think that's me done here.' He patted the lid of the box, suddenly aware that his grip on composure was tenuous at best.

'We're going to miss you.' Beth.

'We'll..we'll come and visit.' Tariq.

Harry shook his head. 'No. Thank you, but no. You're all young; you have your careers ahead of you, and being associated with me won't do you any favours. Let me just say it's been a pleasure and a privilege working with you all and I wish you well.' Turning to Tariq, he held out his hand. The techie ignored it and instead flung his arms around him. Surprised and touched, Harry patted his back for a moment then gently released him. 'Don't go getting into mischief, eh?' He smiled. 'Or if you do, don't get caught.'

He shook hands with Dimitri and pulled Beth into a hug. 'It's okay,' he whispered.

'I-I can't find her anywhere, Harry. I didn't see her go out and I've no idea where she's gone.'

_So she had made herself scarce, then. _

'She's not out in the field, I hope,' he said with a levity he didn't remotely feel.

Beth shrugged helplessly. 'I know she'd want to say goodbye.'

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. With fumbling fingers he rummaged in his coat pocket, and fishing out his car keys and mobile phone he dropped them onto the desk. He then reached into the back pocket of his trousers and retrieved his wallet. One by one he went through the card slots, sliding out ID cards, security passes and credit cards. When only one debit and one credit card remained he snapped the wallet shut and regarded the scattered pile on his desk with a weary smile. 'Somebody else can do the admin for once.'

'Let me give you a lift home.'

'Thanks, Dimitri, but I'm fine. I'd better let you all get on. Give Ruth my...tell her I was asking for her when you see her.' Picking up the box he moved towards the door. 'Well, take care, all of you.'

Out in the Grid a cluster of clerical staff had gathered. One by one they solemnly shook Harry's hand. All too soon he was back by the pods and the waiting James. In silence he escorted Harry downstairs and out into the cold.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you very much for the reviews! Here's a short update.**

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><p>Dimitri looked up as the pods swooshed.<p>

'Oi, Evershed, Towers has just been on the phone looking for you. He wants to see you straightaway.'

Ruth strode over to her desk. 'Thanks. If he calls again, I'm on my way.' She locked the file in her pedestal, grabbed her bag and coat, and ran back to the pods, leaving a bemused Dimitri looking after her.

'Hey!' He turned to see Beth emerging from the forgery suite. 'Was that Ruth?'

'Yeah.'

'Has she gone?'

'Well, duh.'

'After Harry?'

He shook his head. 'Towers.'

'Towers?'

'He phoned for her.'

Beth gave an exasperated sigh. 'Please tell me you at least told her about Harry?'

'No..I didn't really get the chance.'

'Well, did she take her mobile with her?'

'I dunno, Beth. She took her bag, so I guess so.'

Muttering under her breath Beth marched to the nearest desk and dialled Ruth's number. Seconds later, she let the handset drop back onto the cradle.

'Not even going to voicemail. Right, I'm going after her. If my phone rings can you take a message, say I'll call them back in ten? I'm expecting a call from an asset.'

His eyes remained fixed on his monitor. 'No, Beth.'

'What?'

'No,' he repeated, firmly. 'Look, Harry and Ruth are old enough and ugly enough to sort themselves out, and furthermore, whether they do or don't is frankly none of our damn business. Leave her be.'

'But...'

'No buts. Three o'clock,' he muttered, warning of Erin's approach from Beth's right, and he ducked his head back to his report.

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><p>'Ah, Ruth, come in, come in.' He beckoned for her to sit. 'Can I get you something to drink?'<p>

'Tea, tea would be lovely, Home Secretary, if that's okay.'

'Tea, certainly.' Towers pressed a button on his phone. 'Suzanne? Afternoon tea for two, if you please.' He settled into his chair and regarded Ruth gravely.

'Right. Well. Have you read the transcript?'

Ruth nodded. 'Y-yes.'

'So you know the outcome of the enquiry.' It wasn't a question. 'My concern is, Ruth, that there are a lot of people out there in very high places who even now won't want any of the information Harry's been hollering about getting into the public domain. There are also no doubt certain...elements...who will soon have a focus for their desire for revenge.' He paused, Ruth's distress clearly telegraphed by the knuckles clutching at the belt of her coat. 'What I'm trying to say is...'

She looked directly at him now, with those mesmerising blue eyes. 'What you're trying to say is that Harry's life is in danger.'

Towers nodded. 'Certainly once he testifies, and probably also before that. Word has a habit of getting out, I'm afraid, no matter what embargoes are put in place.'

'But he must've known this would happen. What on earth...'

She stopped mid-sentence as the door behind Towers opened and a young woman, presumably Suzanne, entered carrying a tray piled high with crockery and what looked like freshly baked scones. Towers' face lit up like a schoolboy who had just been given the key to the tuck shop. 'Wholemeal _and_ treacle, we are being spoiled today!' He beamed at Ruth. 'Now, shall I be mother?'

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><p>He walked until the protests of his knee could be ignored no longer. Snapping back to the present he scanned his surroundings, and realised that not only did he not have a clue where he was, but that he no longer had the means of contacting anyone to come and pick him up. In a bid to take some of the weight off his leg he leaned against a nearby wall, reflecting as he did so that his mobile would have been bugger all use as he no longer had anyone to contact with it anyway. When the pain eased a little, he began to walk once more, heading for the sound of traffic. Half an hour later he hauled himself into a passing taxi and finally began the journey home.<p>

Opening the front door he felt a guilty jolt of relief at the absence of a welcoming bark. Much as he missed Scarlet, he didn't miss having to turn and go straight out again as soon as he got home, no matter how tired or hungry or out of sorts he was; no matter how cold or wet the weather. He carried the archive box through to the kitchen and laid it on the table. Sitting down he lifted the lid and regarded the contents. A small clay figure, allegedly of Scarlet, that Wes had made for him shortly after Adam was killed. A bottle and a half of Ardbeg. He lifted out the half empty bottle. _Not much to show for thirty odd years, _he thought._ And_ _no job, no pension, and pretty soon no freedom._

He unscrewed the cap and tossed it in the bin.


	4. Chapter 4

Loose-leaf Assam in a china pot. Ice cold milk. Linen napkins. And the scones were hot out of the oven. Evidently the efficiency savings hadn't quite reached all corners of Whitehall. Towers, happily chomping on a treacle scone dripping with butter, enthusiastically indicated for her to do the same. But even the tea turned to ashes in her mouth.

'Home Secretary. Harry. He must've known the risk he was taking. So why...?'

Towers regarded her sombrely. 'You'd be better asking him that, my dear. I do get the impression though, that he feels he has too much blood on his hands and wishes to atone in the only way he can.'

'But that's just...' She rubbed at her forehead. 'If you think his life is at risk, shouldn't you, shouldn't _we_, be doing something about it? To protect him, I mean.'

Towers sighed. 'My dear, we're not talking about fending off a next door neighbour irate because our cat's defecated in their begonias. The resources it would take to protect Harry from those who will wish to...silence him would be disproportionate, I'm afraid.'

Ruth stared at him. 'And he must know that. Harry must know that.'

Towers' glance flitted to the plate of scones, and selecting another one he sliced it in half and smoothed on two thick pats of butter. 'Mm,' he said eventually.

'He knows...he knows he's signed his own death warrant.'

Now the blue eyes were filled with tears. Angry as much as upset she palmed them away. 'But why...?'

He laid his knife down with a sigh. 'I don't think he cares any more. I think the events of the last couple of years...Mr Carter, Ms Myers, the whole Bateman saga...I think they knocked the stuffing out of him, rather. And apologies if I am speaking out of turn, but I gather the two of you have had your difficulties as well.'

He saw the distress on her face shift to disbelief. 'He _told_ you?'

'All I know is what he told everyone present at the inquiry. That, and the evidence of my own eyes.' Towers got up and walked over to the window. He stood for a moment contemplating the scudding grey clouds then turned and retraced his steps. 'May I speak, not as the present incumbent of an office of state, but, well, frankly?'

Ruth smiled resignedly. 'I rather think you're allowed to speak to me in any way you want.'

'Ha! Well. Given that I've said we can't guarantee Harry's safety, you must be wondering why I sent you the transcript. Why I asked you to come here. I'll be honest with you, Ruth. There is an element of self-interest in all this. The coalition has had a bit of a rocky eighteen months. Budget cuts, hackgate, the riots. The last thing we need is a senior MI5 officer blowing the whistle on nefarious goings on in Ireland, Europe and the Middle East, even if most of it is ancient history.'

'There's an element of self-interest in what?'

Towers gripped the back of his chair as if ready to raise it in self defence.

'I need you to persuade Harry to leave the country. For good.'

She laughed. She supposed it was some kind of hysterical reaction, but she laughed. 'Home Secretary, with all due respect, you cannot be serious.'

'I couldn't be _more_ serious. I don't want to read about Harry being stabbed in some random mugging, or mown down by a hit and run driver. Nor do I want to gift the Wapping and Canary Wharf boys a month worth of headlines. At 10am tomorrow he will be charged and released on police bail. You need to get him out of the country within the next 72 hours.'

'He won't go. If he doesn't care what happens to him, why would he?'

'Ruth, the man was willing to give up his career, his liberty, his _life_ for you. If you ask him to spend his retirement on a beach in the Maldives he'll be off to Heathrow before you can pack his bucket and spade.'

She shook her head. 'Home Secretary, we're barely on speaking terms...'

'Then I suggest you get on speaking terms toot sweet.' He flipped open a folder on his desk and extracted a sheet of paper. 'There are funds in this account should he need them. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a meeting with Rowan Williams. No rest for the wicked, eh?'

Dazed, Ruth got to her feet. 'Home Secretary.'

'Goodbye Ruth. And good luck.'

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><p>Still no answer.<p>

He could be out with Scarlet.

He could have already left.

And yet...

Peering through the letterbox, she could see that a light was on in a room at the far end of the hall. A room with, presumably, east facing windows, and sunrise had been over two hours ago. Rummaging in her bag, she pulled out a small canvas roll and selected a long, thin strip of metal that was slightly bent at one end. Ten minutes, a considerable amount of waggling, and four lock picks later, she heard the tell-tale thunk.

'Thank god for that,' she muttered, and opening the door she stepped inside.

'Harry?'

She found him in the living room, sprawled fast asleep on the sofa. The empty bottle of malt lying just beyond his dangling fingertips told its own tale. His feet were bare, his belt unbuckled, and his unbuttoned shirt tugged out of his waistband.

'Oh, hell. Harry!'

She shook him. He shifted his hips, murmured something unintelligible, but didn't stir.

She slapped him. Hard.

'Ooooof.' Blearily, he opened his eyes, and for a moment his face softened, and his lips curved into the slow smile that even after all these years still quickened her pulse and made her stomach do backflips. Then reality hit and his eyes blazed.

'Ruth, what the hell...' He lurched upright, wincing as the room seesawed around him. 'What the hell do you think you're playing at?'

'You've got an appointment with Inspector Knacker in approximately 80 minutes' time. Can we save the interrogations until then?'

He rubbed at his cheek, on which a red imprint of her hand already bloomed. 'You break into my house, assault me in my sleep, and don't think I'm entitled to an explanation?' Gingerly he got to his feet. All of a sudden Ruth seemed to find the pattern in his rug fascinating, and belatedly he realised the state he was in. The resulting jolt of self-consciousness manifested itself in belligerence.

'Well?'

'I'll explain later. Meantime, you'd better have a shower and get changed. I'll make you some breakfast.'

'I'm perfectly capable of making my own toast, thank you, and frankly given your performance so far this morning I wouldn't trust you not to liberally sprinkle it with arsenic.'

'Very droll. Shower. Now.' And before he could respond she turned on her heel and marched out of the room.

He closed his mouth.

And opened it again to protest.

'I don't hear water!'

With as much dignity as he could muster, he made his way upstairs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry for the delay folks; a combination of real life getting in the way and my deciding to bin my original version of this chapter and start again. Still unsure whether or not I made the right decision! Anyway, thank you very much for all the reviews, and hope you enjoy...**

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><p>Ruth sensed him behind her and turned round, disconcerted to see that he was clad only in a navy wool dressing gown. His hair was still wet from the shower and his jaw bore the evidence of a less than meticulous shave. Turning back to the cooker, she waved the spatula vaguely in his direction.<p>

'You've cut yourself.'

'Hm? Oh, probably. Giving yourself a wet shave when you're still under the influence is never a good idea.'

She looked at him in alarm. 'D'you think you are? Harry, you've got to get bail later, you don't want to give them grounds to keep you on remand.'

He pulled out a chair and sat down. 'Last time I checked, being a tad inebriated wasn't against the law.'

'Well, no, but...' She sighed. 'I thought you were getting dressed.'

'Breakfast first. Don't want to get egg all down my front. That's definitely worth a ten-stretch.'

'A ten-stretch? Hark at Fletch.' Deftly she flipped the bacon slices. 'How d'you like your bacon?'

'Not too crispy.'

'Fried eggs?'

'Burnt on the bottom, runny yolk. Hot and fast.' He rubbed at his knee. 'Any toast on the go? Coffee?'

The spatula waved again. 'Cupboard. Bread bin. Kettle.'

He smiled. 'Sorry. I was just enjoying the scene of cosy domesticity.'

Ruth visibly stiffened and he winced. 'Sorry, I...'

She cracked two eggs into the frying pan. 'If this is your idea of domestic bliss then it looks like I dodged a bullet.'

'Ruth...' He let the words die on his lips, and wearily he got to his feet.

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><p>As he ate she stood by the window, cradling a mug of tea, looking out over the back garden towards the grey clouds gathering in the east. A storm was definitely brewing.<p>

'Ruth, your tea's getting cold.'

'Hm? Oh yes. Miles away.' She laid the mug down on the worktop untouched, aware that he was watching her, wondering why she was standing in his kitchen cooking him breakfast after weeks without any contact. She knew too, that he was afraid to ask, wanting her to be there just because she missed him, because she wanted to be with him, yet fearing that she was there because of some misplaced sense of obligation. Or worse, that she was there under orders.

She heard the scrape of his chair legs on the wooden floor as he pushed his chair back and stood. She heard water running into the sink.

'Finished?' he asked quietly, and at her nod he took her mug, tipping out the tea then adding it to the bowl of soapy water. As he began to wash up she risked a glance at him, noticing one by one all the little ways in which the inquiry had taken its toll. A diet of – she imagined – takeaways and booze had filled out his cheeks and his belly. Normally cut with military regularity, his hair was long enough that it was starting to curl at the nape of his neck and around his ears. It was, however, his face that most eloquently told the story. The worry lines were etched a little deeper, and his cheeks were tinged with the grey of little sleep and even less fresh air. But worst of all was the dull despair in his eyes.

Despite herself, her heart lurched.

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><p>He'd put on his best suit and his gold tie. She was moved that he was making an effort, that he was pretending this was just a normal day when he knew, he must know, that his life would never be the same again. As he set the burglar alarm he hesitated for a moment and, turning in the doorway, she saw his head droop, his eyes close. Then he filled his lungs with one deep, galvanising breath and followed her out to the car.<p>

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><p>There was no parking outside the police station; double yellow lines stretched on both sides of the road in all directions. Now he was calm and she uptight; 'Just drop me off,' he said, 'I'll be fine.'<p>

Fine? Ordinarily she knew that to be true; he was more than a match for any police inspector. Now, though, she knew he wasn't, and he wouldn't be, and he didn't care much one way or the other. But with ten o'clock approaching there was no time to argue. She eased the car to a halt outside the building. Unbuckling his seatbelt he thanked her for the lift.

'I'll just go and find a parking space,' she told him, 'then I'll be right behind you.'

He shook his head. 'It could be hours, Ruth. I imagine the boys in blue are looking forward to this and will want to drag it out as long as they possibly can. I'm sure you have work you need to be getting on with.' Briefly his hand rested on her shoulder, then he got out of the car and walked inside.

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><p>'Cuppa tea, love?'<p>

Ruth looked up. The desk sergeant stood in front of her, proffering a styrofoam cup.

She smiled. 'Thank you.'

'He could be a while, you know; your bloke. We can hold him for 36 hours and even then he might be kept on remand. Perhaps you should go home. Police stations aren't exactly the most congenial of places to spend your day in, especially once the drunks start arriving.'

PACE may have been required reading for all security services personnel, but Ruth had no wish to debate the finer points of it with him, or to say that she feared that the only reason for a lengthy process would be Harry confessing to every unsolved crime since Jack the Ripper stalked Whitechapel.

'It's fine,' she told him. 'I'm sure he won't be too long.'

As it was, he emerged late afternoon, pale but composed. Buckling on his watch, he glanced up and saw her coming towards him. While he was touched that she had waited, all he wanted to do was go home, have a hot bath and something to eat, and then get some sleep. The thought of having to handle her concern, her questions, her disapproval was too much. His pace slowed.

'Hey.'

'Ruth. Thank you for waiting. But really, you shouldn't have.'

'It's fine.'

'Ruth...'

'After Rigaut, you stayed all night, didn't you? At the hospital.'

He rubbed his forehead. 'That was different.'

'Not really.' The lightest of touches on his arm. 'Come on.'

It had been raining heavily, and the pavements were dark and slick, the sky oppressively grey. As Ruth pulled away fat raindrops began to spatter against the windscreen, and she flicked on the wipers. Lulled by their repetitive motion and the quiet and warmth of the car it took Harry a few moments to realise that not even by the stretch of a taxi driver's imagination were they heading back to his house.

'Ruth?'

'Mm?'

'Where are we going?'

'Actually, I'm not entirely sure.'

He stared at her. 'Okay, well, I'm tired, hungry and I feel in dire need of a thorough scrubbing. Can I make a suggestion as to where we might go?'

'I-I think neutral territory would be better.' _Somewhere you're not surrounded by all your possessions and the memory of years._

'Ruth, the last...' he checked his watch, '...six hours of my life have not been entirely pleasant and I have no appetite for games. So please will you tell me what the hell's going on?'

'We need to talk.'

His head lolled back against the rest. 'No we don't. It was bad enough going through the whole thing once; I have no wish to relive it.'

She paused while she negotiated her way round a double parked lorry. 'I don't mean about today; well, I do, sort of, in that it's part and parcel of the whole...' she waggled her hand.

Harry was dismayed to feel a little bud of hope unfurl deep in his chest. 'Okay,' he said quietly. 'Lead on, Macduff.'

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><p>Of course they ended up on the banks of the Thames, even if it was the bleak, windswept south bank of the estuary rather than their usual bench on the bustling Embankment. The storm clouds had blown over, and a rainbow, a blurry smudge of colour in the grey-blue sky, spanned the estuary to the east. Hugging her jacket around her Ruth walked towards the water, her brain still stubbornly refusing to arrange into some semblance of order the words she had to say to Harry.<p>

'So, come on then, what's this all about?'

He stood a few feet behind her, toeing little flurries of sand into the air, his light-hearted tone belying the apprehension on his face.

She walked back towards him and gently took his hands in hers.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you very much for all the reviews! And apologies in advance; Harry gets a bit potty mouthed in this one...  
><strong>

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><p>He looked down at their hands, committing to memory the feel of her skin against his own. 'Now you've really got me worried.'<p>

'Harry, I'm not very good at sugar coating things...'

'Okay, now I'm edging towards scared witless...'

'...or, or getting to the point, and I know it drives you mad...'

'No.' He smiled faintly. 'I promise you it doesn't. But on this occasion I would be very grateful if you could break the habit of a lifetime.'

'Mm.' She frowned. 'The thing is, you know what you said a while back about being covered in blood?'

'Yes.'

'Well, I know that's why you've done this, part of the reason, anyway, and...'

'Ruth!'

'Sorry. Sorry.' She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts, then taking a deep breath she continued. 'Because of what you said at the inquiry, because of what you're likely to testify to in court, your life is in danger.'

He tilted his head. 'Whoa. Back up a bit. How do you know what I said at the inquiry? And while we're on the subject, how did you know about my ten o'clock appointment with plod?'

'Towers.'

'Towers?'

'He sent me a copy of the transcript, and...'

'What on earth for?'

'I'm trying to explain, if you'd stop flaming interrupting!'

'Sorry. Go on.'

'He said that your testimony at the inquiry has made you a marked man. There will be people who want to ensure you don't say any more, and people who will want revenge for what you did. Harry, you must know this.'

He shrugged. 'I can look after myself.'

'Oh, for crying out loud, I'm not talking about keeping an eye out for some nutter with a shiv who thinks you need bringing down a peg or two. I'm not talking about ground glass in your mashed potato. I'm talking about the Establishment, the IRA, the RAF...'

'Ruth, most of it was thirty-odd years ago. Nobody cares anymore.'

'No, of course they don't. That's why Towers has been jumping through hoops to get you out of the country before you wind up under the long jump pit in Stratford.'

'What? Oh, don't be absurd.'

Pulling her hands from his she stared at him in disbelief. 'Harry, what the hell has got into you? Okay, so you have some kind of bloody death wish, but this doesn't just affect you! It affects those who authorised the black ops, those who kept schtum about them, those who covered up for you, those who worked with you...and then there's the friends and families of those who were killed.' She exhaled a little puff of exasperation. 'And when the media hear about what happened do you honestly think they're going to shrug their shoulders and say 'Ach, it was a long time ago, who cares?' Of course they're not! You've just dropped a bloody large rock into a very small pond and before it sinks it's going to create a hell of a lot of ripples!'

'It needed to be said, Ruth!'

'Did it? Did it really? What the hell were you hoping to achieve? Justice? Will locking you up for the rest of your life give anyone justice? Will killing you give anyone justice? Harry, you made the decisions that had to be made. You did what anyone else in your position would have done. You were just a small cog in the wheel of state and everyone knows what makes that turn!'

Harry didn't respond, but walked towards the river and stood staring out across the water, his hands jammed into his armpits. The wind had picked up again, bringing with it the hint of more rain. He was aware of Ruth coming up behind him, of her hand on his back.

'You've given your all to this country since the day you joined the army. Don't let it take any more. Don't let it take your life too.'

'It took my life a long time ago, Ruth.'

He heard her breath catch. 'Look, you've done your bit, you deserve to see out your days on a beach somewhere, not in a bloody prison cell. Just walk away. Please.'

'Mm, looking over my shoulder every five minutes for all the goons you say are hellbent on doing me in would be _really_ conducive to a relaxing retirement.'

'Oh come on. The world's still a big place and if you really don't want to be found it's not that difficult to disappear. You've said as much yourself.'

'Invisibility costs, Ruth, and I don't have a pension anymore. Okay, the hours I worked gave me precious little time to spend what I earned, but I didn't earn _that _much and a vast proportion of what I did went to Jane and the kids.'

'Towers has made funds available.'

'Has he? How much?'

'Five hundred thou.'

Harry whistled. 'Blimey. He must want rid. Look, Ruth, I was never there for Catherine and Graham when they were small. How do you think they would react to my abandoning them again, this time for good? And worse, doing so in order that I can avoid taking responsibility for my own actions? That goes against everything I've ever taught them!'

'You're not abandoning them, and when the dust settles you'll be able to see them. Not here, maybe, but...'

'Forget it,' he said firmly, 'it's not going to happen!' His hands emphasising his words, he turned and strode back towards the car.

'You want to be a father to them?' Ruth shouted. 'How much of a father can you be when you're dead?'

'I won't _be_ bloody dead!' he roared. 'You said it yourself, I was small fry. I'll cause a few ripples, a few weeks of tutting and hand wringing in the liberal lefty press and then it will all blow over. Tell Towers to stop being such a bloody old woman. Now are you going to drive me home or do I have to hotwire this sodding car?'

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><p>If the journey back wasn't one of the longest of Harry's life, it certainly felt like it. Ruth, upset, was rigidly silent, and the guilt he consequentially felt only served to heap irritation on top of the anger whose origin he was unsure of and whose focus he knew was misplaced. As they drew up outside his house he was taken aback when Ruth killed the engine and reached to unbuckle her seatbelt.<p>

'Ruth, if you don't mind, I just want a hot bath and an early night.'

'We need to talk.'

'You've had all the way from the river to bloody talk!'

'I'm not about to have a blazing argument with you while I'm driving!'

'There's no need to have _any_ kind of bloody argument, because frankly there's nothing left to say. You want me to do a Ronnie Biggs; I'm telling you no...Ruth!'

But she was out of the car and heading towards his front steps.

'Christ Al...' he muttered, clambering out. 'Ruth, just leave it, will you?' Slamming the door shut he moved round towards the front of the car.

Reaching the top step, she turned, key fob in hand, and in the instant he saw her eyes widen his peripheral vision registered movement to his left. Instinctively he flung himself over the bonnet of Ruth's car as a black Lexus accelerated past, taking the wing mirror with it.

As he clattered onto the tarmac, Ruth's screams were the last thing he heard.

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><p><strong>Oh, Harry, Harry, you should know by now always to listen to Ruth!<strong>

**Just to clarify, by RAF I mean the Red Army Faction, not the Royal Air Force...**


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you again for all the reviews! Sorry for keeping you on tenterhooks; pesky work...** **Anyway, here you go; hope you enjoy.**

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><p>'Okay, Mr Major..'<p>

Harry winced.

'The scan's clear and the x rays confirm no broken bones or dislocations, so we just need to get one of the nurses to patch you up.' The F2 nudged his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and looked up from the screen. 'However, given the loss of consciousness I'd like to keep you in overnight for observation.'

As Harry began to protest he held up his hand. 'I gather, though, that you've been badgering the nurses about getting discharged from the minute you were wheeled in the door.'

'I'm fine. Just a bit bruised and bloodied. Give the bed to someone who needs it.'

The doctor turned to Ruth, who sat, pale and silent, at the far side of Harry's bed.

'Mrs Major, are you happy for your husband to be released into your care?'

She nodded.

'Right, well, I'll give you a leaflet on head injuries, but any vomiting, dizziness, severe headaches, strange behaviour, anything out of the ordinary, bring him right back in. Okay?' He turned to pull back the cubicle curtain. 'Oh, and Mr Major, do try to remember the Green Cross Code next time you visit London, yeah?'

'Cheeky bugger,' muttered Harry, as the curtain was tugged shut once more. He sank back against the pillow, trying to block out the pain in his shoulder and the bears clog dancing inside his skull. Tilting his head, he regarded Ruth. 'John Major? Thanks a bunch, Norma.'

She didn't meet his eye. 'It was the first name that came into my head.'

'You think of me, you think of John Major? Mr Grey Man? Mr _Peas_?'

'For god's sake, Harry,' she hissed. 'Somebody has just tried to kill you, just as Towers said they would, and all you're bothered about is your bloody legend?' Standing up she grabbed a poly bag from the trolley behind her and dropped it onto his stomach. 'Your things. I'll be back in an hour or so.'

'What? Hang on Ruth, where are you going?'

Her reply was lost in the hubbub as she strode out of A+E. Harry suspected it was probably just as well.

* * *

><p>As it turned out, it was more than two hours later when Ruth returned. To her relief the young doctor who had treated Harry was still on duty, and emerging from a cubicle he saw her and came over.<p>

'Mrs Major. Your husband's sleeping just now but he's ready to go home if you'd like to wake him.' He shrugged apologetically. 'I'm afraid we need the bed.'

'It's fine. Thank you for your help.'

'I've given him a supply of painkillers; I'd recommend he get some physio though to ensure that the shoulder mobility isn't compromised long term. It, er, looks like it's suffered quite a lot of trauma already.'

Ruth thought of Tom Quinn. Of Davie King. Of the patchwork of scars revealed to her shocked eyes as the medics had peeled off Harry's shirt. 'Yes,' she said, softly. The doctor touched her arm briefly and moved off.

She walked down the row of cubicles and pulled back the curtain round the one at the end. Harry was propped up on the bed in a blood spattered shirt and muddy trousers, and as she approached he stirred, grimacing as he did so.

'Ruth?'

'Come on, sleepyhead, we've got to go.' She shoved the bag of painkillers and the aftercare leaflet into her handbag and picked up his jacket.

His eyelids fluttered open.

'Can you get your shoes on?'

He groaned. 'Ruth, I've just been hit by the proverbial truck. I can't bloody well sit up let alone bend over to tie my shoe laces.'

She deposited her load on the bed and reached to pick up his shoes. 'Actually, you were the one doing the hitting, and it was mainly my car bonnet.' She gave him a wry smile as she manoeuvred a shoe onto his foot. 'It has a very nice Harry-shaped dent in it now.'

'Good to know you've got your priorities right.' He winced as she lifted his left leg and his hip protested. 'Um, Ruth, I know I've taken up more than enough of your time already today, but do you have a computer I could borrow? Well, just have a look at, really.'

Ruth was standing with her back to him doing up his laces. 'Yes. On one condition.'

'Oh, okay. What's that?'

'That you use it to book a one way ticket to somewhere.'

He didn't respond, and she turned round to see him, brow furrowed, teeth gritted, levering himself upright.

'Oh, Harry...' She moved to help him, but he shook his head.

'I can manage.' Easing his legs over the edge of the bed he tentatively stood and reached for his jacket. 'I'll need help with this, though.' As she fed the sleeve onto his left arm he bent his head to hers. 'I'll explain when we get back to the flat.'

She raised her head, frustrated; what was there to explain? But the proximity of his face to hers startled her and the thread of her thoughts unravelled, leaving her gazing into eyes that she knew all too well were asking her to trust him. She swallowed, and returned her attention to his jacket.

'Have you phoned for a taxi?'

'No, I've got a car.'

'Your car?'

'Malcolm's car.'

'Malcolm's?' Harry blew out his cheeks. 'Looks like I'm not the only one with some explaining to do.'

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><p>Harry settled himself at the kitchen table and booted up the Macbook as Ruth scoured the kitchen for anything that could be made into a meal. She eyed the packets and jars piled on the worktop. 'Spag Bol?'<p>

His eyes didn't move from the screen. 'Great.'

The decision made, she started opening packets and pulling out pans. 'Are you going to tell me what you're doing?'

'Come and have a look.'

Peering over his shoulder she was taken aback to see CCTV footage of the room she'd been in that morning.

'That's...is that...?'

'My house. Something Malcolm rigged up after the last time I got burgled. I'm just checking to see if there might be any nasty little surprises waiting for me when I go home.'

Ruth stared dumbfounded at the screen as he rewound to the time they had left that morning, and proceeded to fastforward through interior and exterior footage for the entire day. 'How on earth...?'

Harry smiled. 'You're asking me? Ruth, I have no idea. It took Malcolm all his time just to teach me how to use the damn thing.'

'Oh my god, you have CCTV in your _bathroom_? Harry, that's paranoid as well as perverted. Do you honestly think someone's going to want to booby trap your rubber ducks?''

'I didn't set it up, Ruth, and I don't make a habit of checking it, even when I have successfully managed to lure some gorgeous woman in off the street with the promise of a Radox bath.'

Despite herself she smiled, and then as the footage cut to the kitchen she was reminded of an evanescent fragment of a thought from that morning. Now she realised what it was that had been amiss.

'Where's Scarlet?'

'With Wes.'

'Yes, but where's her basket and bowls and whatnot? I thought she had duplicates at his.'

'She does,' said Harry, quietly. 'She went to stay with him when the enquiry started, and given that I expected to be carted off and kept on remand after it finished, I thought it best if she stay with him permanently. The old girl's getting on; all the to-ing and fro-ing isn't fair on her.'

He felt her fingertips on his arm. 'Oh Harry. I'm really sorry.'

'So am I. So, are you going to tell me how you've ended up with Malcolm's car?'

Allowing him the conversational shift, Ruth went back over to her pile of ingredients and resumed the prep. 'I got a taxi round to his earlier, and I, um, saw him yesterday as well.'

Harry looked up in alarm. 'Is he alright?'

'He's fine. I got in touch with him after I spoke to Towers.' She sighed. 'Harry, I asked him to create you a couple of new legends.'

He stared at her, incredulous. 'What? You had no right dragging him into this.'

'Towers asked me to get you out of the country. I thought it likely that all the identities you had would be on record somewhere, even if you didn't hand all the passports in, so what was I supposed to do?'

'Trust my judgement? Now there's a radical concept.'

'That's not fair. And Malcolm wanted to help, Harry. I don't know how he did it, nor do I want to know, but...' She went back through to the living room and a moment later reappeared with a thick manilla envelope which she tossed onto the table beside him.

'He assured me that those are good for the blackest of black ops. No traces.'

Harry stared at the package. 'I'm grateful for your help, yours and Malcolm's, but this doesn't change anything.'

Ruth, browning mince on the hob, said nothing, but the wooden spoon prodded at the meat with rather more force than he felt was strictly necessary. Vaguely aware that the evening had taken another turn, and rather at a loss as to how best to proceed, he attempted to make a joke of it. 'And anyway, since when did you do anything Towers told you to, eh?'

The chuckle died in his throat as the spoon stilled and Ruth's head dropped to her chest.

'Harry, today somebody tried to kill you. And even if that CCTV isn't showing anything today, it will tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that.' Her voice wobbled, and she took a deep breath. 'There's been too much death already, Harry. Don't ask me to mourn you too.'

And with that she stabbed the spoon into the mince and turned and fled from the room.

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><p>He knocked.<p>

No answer.

'Ruth, dinner's ready. I – er – finished it off. Probably ruined it but...' He tilted his ear towards the door. 'Ruth?' Tentatively he turned the handle and pushed the door open. Edging into the room he saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching a wad of tissues in her lap. Her face was blotchy from crying. His heart lurched.

'Oh god, Ruth, I...'

She looked up at him, the fury in the red-rimmed eyes stopping him in his tracks. He dragged a shaking hand down one side of his face. 'I'm sorry. I'm, I'm just...' He heaved a weary sigh. 'I-I'd better go. But thank you. Thank you for everything.'

A few moments later she heard the front door click shut, and as the tears began to fall anew she let herself fall back onto the bed.

Somehow, she slept.

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><p>Some time later, cold and hunger woke her. She lay still for a moment, letting the weight of misery settle, then she got up and went through to the kitchen. However hungry she was, the thought of reheated spaghetti bolognaise turned her stomach, and lifting the pan from the hob she spooned its contents into the bin. Ben and Jerry's was about all she could face. She got a tub of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough out of the fridge freezer and sat down at the table.<p>

The Macbook was still open. Turning it towards her she hit the space bar, waking it from sleep. Immediately an image of a back garden appeared on screen. As she reached for the touchpad to close the application, the view changed to the interior of the house. Her hand hovered above the keyboard.

'Oh god,' she whispered.

The ice cream forgotten, she grabbed her bag and Malcolm's car keys, and ran for the door.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry folks, two things I'm rubbish at; apologising for bad language and providing explanatory notes. Re the reference in the previous chapter, for those overseas or too young to remember, John Major is a former British Prime Minister who, back in the 80s, was a member of Margaret Thatcher's cabinet. He had a reputation (not entirely deserved, as it turned out) for being rather dull and boring, and Spitting Image, a satirical TV show which lampooned politicians and celebs using latex puppets, had him as grey from head to foot. Most sketches with him and his wife Norma were based around him eating peas and making thrilling comments like 'Nice peas, dear.' **

**And now, what is probably the penultimate chapter. I have no idea how plausible it is on any level, but I hope you enjoy it.**

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><p>The darkened windows gazed sightlessly across the street as, her heart in her mouth, Ruth ran up the steps and hammered on the door. She stepped back to check for evidence of life upstairs, but then it dawned on her that in the circumstances he was hardly likely to be advertising his presence. Flipping open the letterbox she scanned the hallway, allowing the shadows and shapes to shift into focus.<p>

Still there was no sign of any movement, and rummaging in her bag she retrieved her lock picking kit. In less than two minutes she was inside, the burglar alarm was deactivated, and she was making her way down the hall towards the living room. Only then did she glance up the stairs.

'Shit!'

He sat in the shadows of the half landing, clad in a pair of trunks, a Glock semi-automatic dangling from his right hand.

Clutching her hand to her chest, Ruth sagged against the wall. 'Harry, you scared the living bloody daylights out of me!'

Laying the Glock down on the landing he stood and walked slowly downstairs, flicking on a light switch as he got to the bottom. 'I'm not the one breaking into someone's house in the middle of the night. What the hell are you doing here? Haven't you done enough breaking and entering for one day?'

Suddenly aware of his state of undress, she took refuge in her handbag. 'You forgot these.' She held up the bag of painkillers, then slapped them down on the hall table beside her.

He stared at her in disbelief. 'That's it?'

She dragged her eyes up to meet his, taking in the bruising, the cuts and the grazes as she did so.

'I saw you.'

'Ruth, it's nearly 3am and in the space of less than 24 hours I've had my house broken into twice; I've been strip searched and interrogated for several hours by some over-zealous boys in blue; I've wound up in A+E after doing a header over your car to avoid being killed; and I've had the woman I love tell me to get the hell out of the country and stay there. So forgive me if I ask you to elaborate, but preferably in as few words as possible.'

'Strip...?'

'Ruth!'

'I saw you on the CCTV.' In her distress she paused, and Harry coloured as his mind scrolled through what she could have seen. 'I saw the suitcase. I saw you packing. You were going to leave without saying anything, without saying goodbye!'

He sighed. 'I wrote you a letter.' He indicated a pile of white DL envelopes on the table. 'One for my daughter. One for my son. One for you. And there's a cheque as well; it should more than cover the cost of the repairs to your car.'

'I couldn't care less about the sodding car! Harry!'

His hands raked through his hair. 'You want a goodbye?' he asked, his voice tight. 'Well, goodbye. Now if you don't mind I'm leaving at six and I'd like to get a couple of hours' sleep before then.'

'That's it? After everything, that's it? You were just going to bugger off and...'

'What do you want, Ruth?' he shouted. 'Whatever I do, it's always wrong. You don't want to have to mourn me? Well, you're not going to have to. In fact, you're not going to have to give me a second's thought ever again. Happy now?'

'Of course I'm not happy! You think I want this?'

'I don't have the first clue what the hell you want, and frankly I'm not sure that you do either!'

All of a sudden overcome by a combination of exhaustion and hunger she shoved past him and slumped down onto the stairs.

Harry, hand on hips, was about to launch into a tirade, then he realised that her face, pale at the best of times, was now ashen; her eyes glazed.

'Ruth? Are you alright?'

Propping her elbows on her knees, her hands cradled the top of her head.

'I'm fine, I'm just...I've not been sleeping terribly well lately and I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast.'

'Oh for...'

She sensed him move off and moments later heard clattering coming from the kitchen. Leaning against the banister she let her eyes close, and then she heard his voice, and she opened them once more to see him standing in front of her clutching a steaming mug and a plate of sandwiches. He proffered the mug and laid the plate down on the stair beside her.

'Here, drink this first. Hot and sweet.'

Expecting tea, she was surprised to see he had made her hot chocolate. She was even more surprised to realise that it wasn't the sachet variety made with hot water, it wasn't even the drinking chocolate that she knew from school. She looked up at him. 'Harry, is this...it isn't...'

'It was my mother's recipe.' He gave a lopsided smile. 'Her cure for all ills.'

She took another sip. 'It's fabulous.'

'Hm. My spag bol may not be up to much, but I do make a mean hot chocolate.'

'I'm sure it was lovely, it's just that I dozed off and when I woke up I didn't feel like reheating it all.'

'Well, I want to see that sandwich polished off, and then you can stay in the spare room. I'm not having you driving until you've had a proper rest.'

Her head shot up. 'Thank you, but I'm fine.'

'I'm not arguing about this, Ruth,' he said firmly. 'I'm sure I have a spare toothbrush kicking about, and there are plenty toiletries. I'll just find you something to sleep in.'

Before she could argue he had eased past her and was heading upstairs, retrieving the Glock en route.

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><p>He re-appeared as she was doing the washing up, now wearing his dressing gown. She smiled. 'It's a bit late for modesty, Harry.'<p>

'Sorry. I should've put it on earlier. It was just in my haste...before I realised it was you...ha, no wonder you're having funny turns.'

'Trust me, you have nothing to apologise for.'

Conscious that he was blushing, he tugged the tea towel from its hook and began to dry the dishes. Ruth wondered if her day could get any more absurd, and looking up at him, the sight of his pink-tinged cheeks, sleep-tousled hair and look of weary concentration made her stomach flip. She hesitated with her mug in mid-air half way to the draining board, and as he turned and took it from her they both felt the atmosphere shift. He held her gaze for a moment then looked away, no longer trusting his ability to read the signals, only for her to reach for the mug and gently take it from his hands. Dazed, he stared at it as she laid it on the draining board, and only as her fingertips moved to caress his face did he turn his head towards her.

'Ruth...' he muttered, but whatever he had planned to say was lost as her lips brushed against his. However, as her lips parted and her hands moved beneath the fabric of his dressing gown it quickly became apparent that she did not intend this to be another chaste kiss of farewell. Every instinct in his body was telling him to stop, but his body was no longer listening. Offering up a brief and silent prayer that he be capable of doing justice to all the years of longing and anticipation he pulled her into his arms, gasping as her hand completed its exploration of his back and eased under the waistband of his trunks.

'Get up on the table,' he told her. To his chagrin he realised this wasn't going to be the deliciously slow, tantalising seduction in five star luxury that he'd fantasised about. Ruth, however, seemed to have no objections as she tugged off her pants and reached for him.

'Are you sure about this?' he whispered.

She eased his trunks down over his hips and smiled mischievously. 'I think I'd better be, don't you?'

* * *

><p>Afterwards, upstairs, he took his time. Slowly he removed her remaining clothing piece by piece as he savoured the look, the feel, the taste of every inch of her. Only when she roared at him, frustrated almost beyond endurance, did he lie back and let her straddle him. Now, his eyes never left her face, and when her hands reached for his he clasped them as if his life depended on it. Finally, exhausted and replete, she fell asleep in his arms, and as her breathing slowed he gently extricated himself and got out of bed. On the pillow beside her he left a first edition of Middlemarch, intended as her Christmas present, and on her lips he left one last kiss.<p>

Some hours later, as she drifted up into wakefulness, she knew instantly that he was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you so much for all the reviews! **

**I've decided to split the final chapter into two parts; it was getting a bit long, and ten is a nice round number! I have also taken quite a bit of a gamble with it, and I'm not at all sure that it's paid off. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. **

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><p>As she lies in his bed, with the taste of him still on her lips, the scent of him still on her skin, she knows that she should have gone with him. She knows, too, that he would not have let her. Too dangerous, he would have argued; too nomadic, not the life he wanted for her, and anyway she had walked out on her life once already.<p>

Once? Twice, in a way. But for him she would do it a thousand times.

It is Saturday, and the day is overcast with an unseasonal damp that seeps into the bones. She stays in bed, his pillow clutched to her chest, consumed with guilt and regret that is only heightened as his voice runs in a loop round her head, murmuring words of love, crying out her name. As evening draws in she ventures downstairs, wearing a shirt retrieved from the laundry basket. She sees there is now a fourth envelope on the hall table, beside a bookmarked copy of Ian McEwan's _Atonement_, and picking up the two addressed to her she takes them through to the living room, curls up on the sofa, and opens the first letter. He has written it by hand, and even with a fountain pen his handwriting is awful. She knows his hieroglyphics for the language of MI5 by heart; she is less sure of those for his innermost thoughts. Nonetheless, by the time she is halfway down the first page she is in tears.

As she finishes the letters she is stunned to realise that there are no contact details, no clues as to where he may be headed, no promises that he will be in touch. He tells her that he loves her and hopes that she will be happy, the implication being that he cannot give her the happiness that she deserves.

* * *

><p>The fallout, when it comes, is predictable and unpleasant, although Ruth suspects that Towers does his best to curb their worst excesses. As Harry's life is dismantled around her she meets with Catherine and Graham; the latter, it appears, somewhat under duress. Catherine is upset but resigned, her brother seemingly disinterested until he discovers that Harry has long since prepared for an eventuality such as this. Ownership of his house and its contents is transferred to Catherine, but Graham may live there if he wishes. As he rails against his father's controlling tendencies, Ruth sees Harry in him for the first time. He is indignant when she explains why she's smiling; Catherine laughs and tells her that Graham gets more like their father with every passing year.<p>

* * *

><p>The weeks pass and the few trails unearthed by the police seemingly lead to dead ends, but she knows she is being watched, her work and all communications monitored, and so she bides her time. Yet every day he is her first thought on waking, her last before she falls asleep. Every day the little knot of worry tightens. Every day disproves her belief that it can't be possible to miss him more.<p>

On the Grid during her lunch break or when everyone else has left for the day she reads the Times, surreptitiously scanning the classified ads. Thinking she must have missed something she reads and re-reads his letters, and scours Middlemarch for hidden messages, desperate for some clue as to how to contact him, but to no avail. The only lead she has is Malcolm, and the names he used for the legends. She had asked him what they were on the Saturday night when she returned his car; he, quite correctly, had followed protocol and refused to tell her. Now, though...

She turns up on his doorstep and to her mortification bursts into tears as he opens the door. For once this socially gauche, physically undemonstrative, lovely man gets it absolutely right and just holds her. When the tears subside he tells her, unasked, what she needs to know, and as she sips a restorative cup of sweet tea he slips from the room. Returning moments later he hands her a strangely familiar package. One I prepared earlier, he tells her, sheepishly. There are four legends, two sharing Harry's surname.

Quietly Malcolm hands her a box of tissues.

The following day on the Grid she waits until Erin is out of the building and tells Tariq she wants to buy a new mobile. Would he come with her to Carphone Warehouse during her lunch break to help her choose? iPhone 4, he tells her, job done. Still she stands there, silently, patiently, and finally the penny drops. Then again, he says, smartphones aren't cheap. Yeah, no problemo.

Conscious of the invidious position she is putting him in, they are half way to the shop before she plucks up the courage to explain what it is she really needs him to do. He agrees without hesitation, although he doesn't have the heart to tell her that, anticipating a conversation like this, he's been looking for Harry, below the radar, since the early days of his departure, and so far he's done little better than the boys in blue. Harry is nothing if not a first class spook, and Tariq suspects that if he doesn't want to be found he never will be. The legends, though, should give him something to go on. He makes a mental note of the details and promises to let Ruth know of any leads.

They return to the Grid with a Sony Ericsson. Well, I liked the colour, says Ruth. Tariq is suitably distressed.

The trail goes cold at Zeebrugge.


	10. Chapter 10

**Thank you so much for all the reviews and favouritings and whatnot; I'm chuffed to bits, truly! I'm also very sorry that I'm posting this rather later than I intended; last weekend was manic and I've been ill all this week and not really up to thinking about this until today. On that basis I do hope that it's up to scratch and that you enjoy it. And thank you for reading!**

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><p>She supposes it's some kind of self preservation thing that kicks in eventually; in any event as winter begins to exert its grip on a bleak, grey London, she's getting used to missing him and is beginning to accept that she now has to sort herself out and get on with the rest of her life. Tariq, however, quietly continues his search, and Beth, who is back working in the private sector, is using her contacts and calling in all the favours she can. Ruth is grateful, but resigned. All she can do is wait, and hope.<p>

* * *

><p>Several thousand miles away he stares out of another plane window as it banks over an improbably blue bay, and he realises that wherever he goes, he will still be there. He will still be there, and she will not. He has only one birthday still to come before he hits sixty, yet for the first time in his life he knows what it is like to feel as if a part of him is missing. Selflessness, he thinks, as he downs the last of a ruinously expensive malt, is vastly overrated.<p>

He zigzags across Australia, enjoying the cricket, the beer and the weather. He suspects that the outback, even the cities, would be easy to get lost in, but knows that this young country, this remote land of contrasts whose footprints are shallow and few in the sands of history, is not for him. To the hidden, lead-lined pocket of his holdall he adds the passport which he purchased from an old contact in Belgium, and a few days after Christmas he buys a standby ticket to Denpasar. It is in the name of Sam Travers; the second of Malcolm's legends.

He does not examine his motives too closely.

* * *

><p>New Year's Eve, and Ruth is in the Ladies at Thames House, getting herself ready for a Home Office party in Whitehall that Erin has asked her to attend in her stead. A Christmas Eve bomb in a Berlin nightclub and a Boxing Day bomb in Milan Central train station have meant a long, hard week with all leave cancelled, however it appears that the party must go on. As she grimly slaps blusher onto pallid cheeks the eyes that regard her in the mirror are tired and bloodshot; she would give away all the state secrets she knows to be at home right now, curled up on the sofa with a book and a pot of tea.<p>

At that moment her reverie is broken by a knock on the door and Tariq calling her name. Before she can respond he bursts in, and once he establishes that they are alone he turns to her, the grin on his face a mile wide.

He's in Bali, he tells her. Harry is in fucking Bali.

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><p>She's hopeless at schmoozing. Small talk has never been her forte, and tonight as her emotions veer from elation to relief to apprehension and back again she is distracted, fidgety, and unrewarding company. As she stands on the periphery of the gathering sipping a mineral water, she is aware of a presence at her elbow. William Towers. Fond of Ruth, and feeling to an extent responsible for her predicament – irrational though he knows this is - he has been keeping a quiet eye on her since Harry left. Tonight he gets the feeling that there is something amiss. Or not quite amiss, perhaps. Despite the abstracted air there is a senses of calmness about her...and in an instant he knows. She's telling him in her normal rambling fashion about the work section D has been doing in response to the bombings in Europe - never one to switch off, our Ruth - and when she pauses for breath he asks her straight out. She denies it, but when Towers, his eyes kind, raises a sceptical eyebrow she knows that she's not convincing anyone. As her words falter he tells her of an anti-terrorism summit, coincidentally arranged for four days' time in Rabat. She speaks Arabic and French, doesn't she? Would she care to come along as an interpreter? It would be an invaluable experience, after all. She stares at him. He knows. And he's giving her a way out. She stammers about the appropriateness of her attending, about Erin's likely opposition, about her lack of fluency in Darija. All her objections are brushed aside, and he tells her that his secretary will be in touch. Perhaps, he says, she should go home and start packing. She wants to hug him, but all she can do is murmur her thanks. He pats her arm, gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and moves off, back into the throng and the noise.<p>

She goes home and stands in the middle of her living room and wonders where the hell to start. Casting her mind back to the days, weeks and months after she kissed Harry goodbye on the docks she remembers that once the shock and the panic had subsided it was books she missed. Photos. The little wooden buddha a colleague had brought her back from Nepal. Her cereal bowl - this makes her smile. The little Persian rug on her bedroom floor that had cost her three weeks' salary. These things she packs first; despite the fact that she was supposed to be dead, Harry had paid a small fortune to have the contents of her house packed up and put into storage, and so she still has them all. She had assumed he had neither had the time nor the inclination to do the packing himself; in reality he had been unable to bear being surrounded by such personal, intimate reminders of her, and had only stayed in her house long enough to pick up Fidget and purloin a strip of photos, too bewitchingly happy ever to appear in a passport, that were pinned to the cork noticeboard in the kitchen.

Her suitcase half full, she contemplates the contents of her wardrobe and her chest of drawers. A dispiriting palette of monochrome, she knows that all too soon little will be of any use to her anyway. She throws in some underwear, some basics, three floaty cotton summer dresses and a couple of pairs of sandals, then sits on the case and zips it up around her. Fidget wanders in and watches her dispassionately, a reminder both of what she will be leaving behind and of how much she still has to do. But she has had enough for one day, and she lets him out, undresses, washes, and crawls into bed. By the time the fireworks herald the new year, she is fast asleep.

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><p>The next day dawns, bright and cold, and she spends most of the morning in front of her laptop researching Rabat and Bali, and trying to work out how best to get from one to the other as quickly as possible without leaving a trail. Hunger drives her into the kitchen, and as she nibbles on a slice of toast she phones Malcolm, Tariq, then Beth. They arrive on her doorstep within the hour.<p>

Beth, whose opinion of Harry has been coloured by his midnight flit, keeps her opinions to herself but promises to tie up the domestic loose ends after Ruth leaves. Tariq, sharing Harry's cynical view of politicians, is worried; unsure if Towers can be trusted; but he says he will do what he can to create a smokescreen, and will keep tabs on Harry. And Malcolm, sorrowful but resigned, tells her that Fidget will be good company for his mother. They get down to planning Ruth's journey to Bali. By the time they say their farewells the light has long since leached from the sky, and for the first time Ruth dares to hope.

The following day on the Grid Erin is predictably narked that her analyst's networking has resulted in such a junket; that Towers informs her himself only adds to her resentment, but as the minister's regular summoning of Ruth has become something of an office joke her suspicion is not aroused. She even agrees without demur to Ruth's request to stay on in Africa for a few days afterwards to meet up with an old university friend. As Ruth returns to her desk it dawns on her that not only is she a better liar than she ever used to be, but that she feels no guilt at deceiving Erin or colleagues she has worked with for years; colleagues that are the closest thing she has to friends. She buries the thought and gets on with clearing her workload as best she can. Yet as the desklamps go out one by one around her, and her colleagues, with wishes for a safe trip, bid her good night for the last time, she struggles to maintain the facade. As the pods hiss shut behind Erin, leaving her alone on the Grid, she cries.

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><p><strong>Ten days later<strong>

As he gazes out through the curtain of rain at the rice fields he realises that his travels have not yet come to an end. For all that he had been prepared for the wet season to be, well, wet, he hadn't expected _this_. The humidity, too, is hard to cope with; he has bought a supply of thin cotton shirts and shorts from the market opposite the palace, and to the amusement of his pembantu has taken to ambling out of the master bedroom and diving into the pool fully clothed. The cool water provides but brief respite as the heavens pummel him from above.

He is upstairs in the loft reading when the stillness of the dusk carries the sound of a car approaching, then he hears the crunch of gravel as it comes to a halt outside the stone archway that is the entrance to the villa's grounds. With barely a second's hesitation he kills the light, opens the drawer in the desk and takes out the gun. Checking it is loaded he shoves it into the waistband of his shorts, and runs downstairs to the living room. It is in darkness, the blinds already lowered, but edging one aside he can see the stone path that leads from the entrance to the walkway across the rice fields. Nothing. There is a second gun taped to the back of the television; this one he keeps hold of. The car engine is still idling, and at a crouch he runs to the back door and lets himself out into the courtyard. For all its aesthetic appeal, the glass front of the villa offers him scant protection; outside he is at least shielded by the wall that runs round the top end of the pool.

As he reaches the far side of the wall the sound of the engine changes, and slowly the car moves off. He waits, unwilling to relax just yet, and his suspicions are proved right when moments later the security lights at the entrance are activated. Despite himself, he smiles. If this is someone trying to kill him, it is either a rank amateur, or someone who wants him to think that they are.

Still he waits. There are two small windows high up in the wall and he edges towards the first and looks towards the entrance. Backlit by the security lights he sees a not entirely unfamiliar silhouette. His pulse quickens, but still he doesn't move, wondering if there are others in the shadows waiting for him to take the bait. It has started raining again, and the figure moves quickly but carefully down the steps to the walkway. He retraces his steps, and circles the rear of the villa, running round the perimeter of the rice fields towards the entrance. The palm trees over little cover; he has to rely on the fading light.

Only when he is sure that there is no-one else in the grounds or beyond the entrance does he turn back, tucking the gun into his waistband with its partner. This time he sees no reason not to follow the walkway.

Although he is barefoot, she senses him, and turns, and in the light of the verandah he sees her properly for the first time. He stops. Even at a distance she can see the shock on his face, and he drags his hands down his cheeks in a gesture she knows so well. She knows, too, what he must be thinking, and her eyes fill with tears.

Then he begins to run.

[THE END]

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><p><strong>ETA: A pembantu is a maid. And sorry for Tariq's language. ;)<strong>


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